And in the end, the love you take
by Papergirl
Summary: Shawn discovers his evening with Mr. Yang is far from over... and Juliet is about to pay the price. MAJOR SPOILERS for AN EVENING WITH MR YANG.
1. Are you gonna be in my dreams tonight

_**And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. - The Beatles**_

Author's Note: Oh, poor Liam. Working through a lack of inspiration for Little Boy Blue, well, I ended up with this. Originally two separate fics - one mild Shabby, and one angsty Jules - I realized they combined nicely. Shules fans, I swear if you can get through the Shabby in the beginning, you'll be rewarded in the end.

Disclaimer: Not mine. *sniff* Never will be, either. Unless... where's my time machine?

SPOILERS (overall): An Evening with Mr. Yang; Bounty Hunters!; He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, He Loves Me, Oops He's Dead

* * *

They hold hands as Shawn walks her to the front door.

"Tonight was..." Abigail's eyes dance an erratic path while she searches for the right word.

"Long overdue?" Shawn supplies quietly, his eyes on their hands.

She smiles. "I was going to say 'unusual but fun,' but yours works, too."

They reach the door and stop, standing next to each other, hands still clasped.

Shawn takes a breath and turns to face her, dropping her hand in the process.

"Listen, Abigail. I had a great time tonight, and it's exactly what I needed after today's... insanity."

"I'm glad," she tells him, hoping he can't read the nervousness in her voice.

Shawn clears his throat, meeting her eyes.

_'Do it,'_ his brain screams. _'Tell her the truth. Open up to her. Take a chance... like Juliet did.'_

_'Shut up, you traitor!'_ he snaps at his brain. _'I like Abigail. I'm doing the right thing.'_ He has to be - that's why he is so nervous he could throw up. It isn't because- "I want to see you again," he says quickly, before his brain can interfere.

Abigail grins.

'See?' he tells his brain. 'She really is beautiful.'

"Should we set something up in April?" she teases. "Maybe 2011?"

Shawn chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he pauses long enough to swallow the lump in his throat. "But I was hoping for tomorrow."

She grins, eyes sparkling. "Are you sure Gus is free?"

He leans in slightly, hesitating over kissing her. "It's Saturday night," he says, his voice just above a whisper. "Of course Gus is free. But I was kind of hoping there wouldn't be enough room for him in that corner booth."

"While I'll be utterly devastated without him tomorrow," Abigail starts, leaning slightly towards Shawn. "I think, somehow, I"ll survive."

"Mmm hmm," Shawn closes the distance between them and places a soft kiss on her lips. "I'll pick you up at seven," he assures her, walking away with a little wave.

She nods.

"Seven!" he calls out as he reaches the car door.

She waves and disappears inside, and Shawn opens the door and sinks into the Echo. He looks at Gus, who's now in the driver's seat.

"Seven?" Gus asks curiously.

Shawn grins. "A second date."

"That's impressive, Shawn, but you can't borrow the car. I need it to-"

"I've got the bike, Gus. Don't worry."

With that, Shawn reaches over and turns up the volume on the radio. Gus takes the hint; the rest of the trip to Shawn's apartment occurs without speaking.

When they arrive, Shawn turns down the music. "Gus, I just..." he trails off, clearing his throat. "I wanted to uh, to thank you for everyth-"

Gus raises a hand to stop him. They share a knowing look.

Shawn gives a half smile. "Thanks, buddy."

Gus nods, and Shawn gets out, then leans his head back in. "For everything, dude."

Gus smiles. "Thank you for the Necco wafers. Now, go get some sleep."

Shawn nods and taps the roof twice before turning and heading to his apartment.

He doesn't realize he's exhausted until he turns the key in his apartment door. It hits him in a wave, and he doesn't bother to turn on a light.

After a brief stop in the bathroom, he finally makes it to his final destination. He collapses on his bed, still dressed, and on top of the covers.

His eyes shut, but his mind is terribly awake, his muscles still on fight-or-flight alert. An entire hour passes while Shawn involuntarily relives his day.

By the time his mind returns him to the drive-in, Shawn tries to fast-forward as best he can past the bomb-almost-killed-my-mother/conversation-with-serial-killer part, focusing instead on Juliet's nervous little speech, that look of pure joy on her face before he broke the news. Before he broke her heart.

He knows what Gus had been getting at during lunch. Yes, the Juliet thing is tired, but only because it is so delicate. There are only so many times Shawn can flirt and hint before he reveals too much, before he reveals everything, and the thought of revealing everything to anyone - even Jules - terrifies him to the core.

Because of his feelings, Shawn walks a dangerously thin line, dances over it daily, back and forth. Cha cha cha.

The one time he had gone all out - a good five yards or so over the line - he likes to blame on the vest. Blame, thank, whatever.

The key is that their thing, or non-thing, or, after tonight, almost thing, is complicated.

With Abby, it's easy.

Sure, there's the pier baggage, but that's it. They have tons of pre-pier times to fall back on. Their senses of humor are the same, and, it pains Shawn to admit, Abby far exceeds Jules in referencing abilities.

... But maybe Jules is right.

Maybe the richest things aren't meant to be easy.

Shawn sits bolt upright, blinking furiously in the darkness as pieces fall into place with almost audible thumps.

_'A solid ending.'_

_'Do you know what it is, or do you want to be surprised?'_

_'I need you to like me because we're going to be working together again.'_

She'd been at the restaurant - of course she knew he called Abigail. They all know that.

But Abby's okay.

It had bugged him all through the semi-double date. The standoff with Yang hadn't been an ending, solid or otherwise. There hadn't been any closure. She hadn't completed anything.

His heart starts racing and he leaps to his feet, grateful he hadn't bothered to undress or even remove his shoes.

If Yang had heard the call to Abigail, then she'd probably heard Gus's 'tired old Juliet' routine. And if she'd heard that...

Shawn holds down #5 on his cell phone as he searches frantically for the keys to the Norton. As expected, as feared, it goes straight to voicemail.

Juliet's phone_ never _goes straight to voicemail.

As he grabs his helmet, he holds down #6. Lassiter, no doubt still at the station, answers after two rings.

"What do you want, Spencer?" he asks, his voice gruff to keep up the pretense that he hates him, but Shawn knows there's a grudging respect and a shade of concern in his words.

"The thing with Yang isn't over!" Shawn shouts, jogging to his bike.

"I know," Lassiter tells him. "Our interrogation'll go all night. We're trying to find out if there are more victims, but she's not talking."

"It's Jules!" Shawn exclaims, swinging a leg over the bike.

Lassiter doesn't catch his meaning. "No, she went home. Dobson and I are-"

"No!" Shawn practically shrieks. "It's Jules! The game isn't over; Juliet is the last part!"

Without waiting for Lassie's response, Shawn flips his phone shut, pulls on his helmet, and takes off at dangerous speed to Juliet's.


	2. And in the end

Author's Note: Herein lie the minor spoilers for He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, He Loves Me, Oops He's Dead and Bounty Hunters!

* * *

Not for the first time in her life, Juliet manages to simultaneously laugh and cry a little when she starts her car and REO Speedwagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling" blares from the speakers.

Her hand automatically shoots out to change the station, but she drops it before touching the button. A sappy 80s love ballad is actually a fitting punishment.

How can she be so stupid?

Even if he wouldn't have had a date, tonight never would have been the right night. Sheesh. She knows what he went through today, can only begin to imagine how he feels. Why couldn't she have given him time to recover? Then, in a few days, when he'd no doubt mention he's in a relationship - a real relationship - with another woman, she could have just kept her feelings to herself.

He'd told her a little about Abigail. She seems like a decent person, nice, with a good sense of humor. And she had been the one who got away. How can Juliet deny him that? After all, everyone has a "one who got away."

She just hopes Shawn won't be hers.

Now, as she drives home, her stomach is already twisting at the thought of seeing him at the station. With a normal person, she could act as if nothing had happened. But with Shawn... oh God, Monday is going to be awful.

'Office romances never work, O'Hara. You should know that by now.'

The thought of going home is even less appealing than the thought of going to work on Monday, and so Juliet finds herself pulling over to take a walk along the boardwalk. She buys an ice cream cone - not comfort food, since it's actually frozen yogurt and, therefore, healthy - and strolls down the boardwalk, staring out across the ocean.

Sometimes she pretends she's still in Florida. Usually after a big day, she pictures a hug from her mother and talking sports with her dad and her brothers while Mom and Grandma fuss with dessert. Thinking of her family always makes her feel homesick, and it helps pretending she is mere minutes away instead of a continent.

She's finishing the last of her cone when her phone rings. "Speak of the devil," she murmurs at the caller ID, chewing quickly before snapping the cell open.

"Hi, Mom," she says, her mouth only partially full.

"Hi, Bean," her mom's voice is like a soft, worn-in blanket, and Juliet, standing on a pier in Santa Barbara, wraps herself in it.

The familiar, caring pause between her mom's greeting and the "How are you, sweetie?" brings a tear to Juliet's eye, which she wipes away angrily.

She's not going to cry over a boy; she's not thirteen.

"Okay," she lies. "How are you?"

"Jim! David! I swear to- back away from the brownies! You're two grown men!"

Juliet chuckles and sniffs, imagining her mother, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, swatting her dad and her uncle away.

"Sorry, honey. These O'Hara men are worse than the dog."

Juliet smiles, but doesn't say anything. What is there to say?

She's close to her mom, very close, and over the course of the last few years she's let more than a few details slip about a certain psychic. They'd used up half of a month's cell phone minutes in one conversation after that 100% speed dating match. And another half of a month's minutes when she and Shawn had close talked, although, to be fair, a lot of it was also about how Juliet had beaten herself up over losing Tancana.

She likes talking to her mom - she knows exactly when to listen and what to say. Like now, for instance. Sensing Juliet's not ready to talk yet, her mom launches into a story about the problems she and her dad had experienced eariler in the day when they tried to buy new lawn furniture.

She earns a few sniffly laughs from her daughter before segueing flawlessly into, "How was your day?"

Like her mom is turning a spigot, Juliet finds herself spilling every detail of her day - leaving out, as she always does, the most gruesome or worrying parts (although the serial killer aspect makes it difficult this time around). Juliet's made easily twenty ambling laps of the pier by the time she gets to the part of the story involving the bumbled asking out.

"Aw, honey, I'm sorry," her mom's sympathy almost provokes a tear. Almost.

"It's okay. It's fine. It's no big deal," Juliet assures her, shivering slightly in the cool breeze. Feeling chilly, she decides it's a good time to go back to the car.

"Juliet, I don't know how you do so well undercover," her mom tells her in a mock-stern tone. "Because you're a terrible liar."

Juliet grins despite herself. "Thanks, Mom," she replies sarcastically.

"Look, Bean, I know it's not the answer you want to hear tonight, but trust me. It'll work out how it's supposed to in the end."

"Yeah," Juliet agrees halfheartedly, imagining an invitation to Shawn and Abigail's 80s-themed wedding. She shudders involuntarily.

"I'm serious. Don't you trust your mother?"

Juliet smiles, strolling up the sidewalk to the parking lot. "I trust you, Mom," she tells her.

"You should," she teases. "This old lady knows what she's talking about. Haven't I told you what your father did before we were engaged?"

Juliet's smile turns into a full-fledged grin. "Yeah, yeah. We all know the story by heart."

"Good," her mom says, and Juliet can hear her smile. "Now, when are you going to grace us with your presence?"

"I've gotta go, Mom," Juliet jokes quickly, approaching her car in the almost empty lot. Her mom laughs at their usual end-of-conversation exchange.

"All right, all right. I love you, Bean. Sweet dreams."

"Bye, Mom. Love you, too."

Juliet flips her phone shut and digs through her purse for her keys. She's still smiling when she unlocks the door.

She sinks into her seat and her smile quickly fades.

Realizing she's not alone in the car, she spins but doesn't have time to pull her weapon before she feels the barrel of a gun on the base of her skull.

"Not. So. Fast," a male voice demands, and then there's a vague sense of pain as the whole world goes black.

* * *

Author's Note: Just wanted to say that the nickname "Bean" came from a young, intensely competitive softball-pitcher Juliet, because I can picture her taking out a few batters. :P


	3. the love

If it weren't so noisy, Shawn would have left the bike running outside. As it is, he practically tips it over in his rush to get to his feet. He easily closes the distance to the door, reaching for the handle before his brain has enough time to think.

_'No, Shawn, go right ahead,' _his brain cracks sarcastically. _'Just barge in on a serial killer without a weapon in sight.'_

_'I have the same weapon I always use - my brain,' _Shawn retorts, and that shuts it up.

The handle turns easily. Shawn's breath catches in his throat.

The apartment is dark, but he can instantly tell it's empty.

His heart sinks.

He flips on a light.

Scanning the room, his eyes analyze every detail. He takes a few steps, spinning around.

Everything's perfect; everything's where it's supposed to be.

"Damn it," he mutters, turning around once more before his eyes fall on a book on the coffee table.

It's one of the leatherbound editions that looks more at home behind a lawyer's desk than in front of a couch .

Shawn gingerly sits down on the edge of the sofa, swallowing a twinge of bile when he reads the embossed cover.

"'Our Story' by Mr. Yang."

He opens the book, flipping past the first few blank pages.

_'Room for your foreword,'_ his brain supplies without being asked.

Page twelve has a colored, intricate drawing of three Indian figures. It means nothing to Shawn, and he turns the page, only to have his blood chill in his veins.

There's a polaroid of Juliet, unconscious and tied to a chair. A note to Shawn is scrawled underneath.

_There once was a girl named Jules_

_But Shawn broke all of the rules_

_He turned Yang in_

_So he cannot win_

_No matter what his tools_

Shawn studies the picture of Jules. The chainsaw behind her, to her right, jumps out at him at first viewing. As does the handsaw to her left, and the hanging wooden rack of dangerous, pointy instruments.

Shawn's eyes return to the text, but he can't find a clue.

Tools. Something about tools.

He's about to slam the book down in frustration when he notices the bottom-right edge of the page is bent slightly.

With a shaking hand, he turns the page.

Two limericks this time, and one picture.

It takes all of Shawn's restraint to read the clues without dropping his eyes to the photo.

_Hibernating brown bear_

_sits in a rectangle square_

_If Shawn is late_

_We'll know it's Fate_

_and Jules will lose more than her hair._

Upon closer inspection, the second block of text wasn't actually a poem or a clue, just an ominous threat.

_I'm not as patient as my sister... and I don't play as nice._

Shawn's eyes dart down to the picture.

Still unconscious, Juliet's head hangs forward slightly, her newly shorn hair in an almost pageboy cut framing her bloodied face.

Shawn feels something brewing inside of him. He can't put a name to it, but it feels like a rage unlike any he's ever known. Were he in a different frame of mind, he might make an Incredible Hulk reference.

He hears a faint beeping. At first he assumes it's the sound of blood rushing in his ears, but he realizes it's electronic. He follows the sound to Juliet's bedroom.

Hidden under her pillow is the stopwatch.

He has thirteen minutes.

Shawn swallows the bad taste in his mouth as every muscle in his body tenses.

Not bothering to call Lassiter, hoping he'll figure it out on his own, Shawn races back to the bike. He knows where he's going, but he contemplates a pit stop first. He knows his dad keeps his gun in the same spot he's always kept it.

* * *

Author's Note: What sick bastard cuts Juliet's hair?!?


	4. you take

When Shawn arrives at the old lumber yard, he instantly second guesses himself. Normally not in his nature, the level of doubt he's experiencing is nearly overwhelming.

Glancing down at the stopwatch, the digital display innocently declares four minutes left.

He doesn't have time to be wrong, so he reassures himself that he must be right. The old tool and lumber yard, Bear and Allen, on Liberty Square. It fits the clues. It has to be it.

His doubts disappear when he spies the back of Juliet's car around the corner.

He dismounts and walk/jogs the distance to the nearest entrance. As his feet crunch on the gravel and dilapidated pavement, he wishes he'd have had time to stop and arm himself. It's been a long day, and Shawn isn't sure he's going to be able to keep his cool enough to talk this latest psycho out of killing someone he loves.

Someone he loves.

_'Thanks, brain,' _Shawn snaps._ 'You don't think that maybe there's a better time to do this deep, soul-searching stuff?'_

Properly chastised, Shawn's brain focuses on the task at hand. His years of training snap into place, and his eyes rapidly scan his surroundings as he approaches the door.

The door is old, its hinges thoroughly rusted. Even if it's unlocked, Shawn will lose the element of surprise as soon as he opens it.

But the element of surprise is overrated - they both know he's here.

As anticipated, the door protests movement with a loud, prolonged creak worthy of a horror movie. Shawn slips inside.

The building is dark, save for the reluctant moonbeams shooting past the scattered storm clouds and through the large overhead windows. They give the empty expanse a dreamy, indigo hue.

Shawn wishes it were a dream, and he could just close his eyes and wake up on the bed. Or on the couch. The floor, even; he's not fussy.

In the distance, he just barely makes out Juliet's figure, tied to a chair. She's looking down. Next to her, his back to him as he fiddles with something on a table, is the man he presumes is Yang's brother.

Shawn's prolonged blinking and silent, "no place like home" pleas don't magically transport him to safety, and so he begins a long, slow walk to the southeast side.

"Three minutes!" the brother shouts to him. "Cutting it awfully close, aren't we?" He turns to run a hand across the top of Juliet's head. That's when Shawn realizes she's unconscious, her body held upright by the tight ropes across her sternum, stomach, and shins.

"You know how it is," Shawn finds himself saying in a voice much cooler and less shaky than he feels. "You hit one traffic light and you hit them all."

He's still too far away to see the psycho brother's face, but the shadows certainly don't help, either.

"Maybe," the brother says. "Or maybe Sis was wrong. Maybe you don't care for this one like she thought you did."

Shawn swallows, trying to put his body and his mind in check. Anger isn't going to save her. Neither is vomiting.

With a level of focus Shawn's sure his father would be proud of, he makes his final approach, stopping a few feet in front of them. He can see the brother now, and is amazed to discover he looks like Andrew McCarthy after a really, really, _really_ rough decade.

Andrew McCarthy? _Really?_

Ignoring the wannabe Brat Packer's comments, eying Juliet's hanging head, cruelly cut hair, and ominously blinking red light on a small box on her lap, Shawn demands, "What'd you do to her?"

The other man has the audacity to shrug. "Just a small blow to the head, followed by a mild sedative. Honestly, I expected her to be awake by now. Waiting's not as much fun when one of you is sleeping."

"Drugged and unconscious," Shawn corrects.

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to," the brother replies.

"What do you want?" Shawn asks, once again impressed that his voice lacks the weariness and fear that currently engulf him.

"I want them to release my sister, or you watch this little lady die, and then I kill you, too."

Shawn's brain ignores the eminent threat to his and Juliet's lives, focusing instead on a plan. If he wants them to release his sister, there'll be a phone call. Shawn'll call Lassiter. He'll try desperately to use some sort of code to clue him in on-

"Sure. It's a reasonable request. I'll call the police now," Shawn tells him, as if they were about to order Chinese carryout.

"Don't think I'm an idiot," the brother warns. "Assume that I'm smarter than you, and this will go a lot easier for you."

Shawn shrugs, unsure what to say.

"Do you want me to go to the station? I can send myself on a psychic plane, but the Santa Barbara police department isn't very open to receiving my astral projec-"

"We're going to make a phone call, smartass."

Shawn nods mutely, slipping his cell phone from his pocket.

PsychoBro laughs, and Shawn involuntarily grinds his teeth at the sound. "No, no, no. I'm not an idiot, remember? I'm going to dial, you're going to talk, and if they don't do what I want, you're both going to die."

"Seems simple enough, but there were a lot of steps. Do you think I could get it in writing first?" Shawn can't help himself. His mouth is operating purely on nerves and without any prior consultation with his brain. Not that there's normally a lot of consultation, but... "Maybe in checklist form? A Honey-Do list perhaps."

The brother casually strides over to Juliet and pulls her short hair back at the roots, producing a ten inch blade and caressing the air just below her jaw. Shawn can only imagine that the fear and anger in his own eyes would be mirrored in hers, were she awake.

Though he doesn't want her to join in on this absolutely amazing experience, Shawn nevertheless wishes she would wake up.

"Did I forget to mention that I don't like backtalk?"

Shawn bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste the blood. His fists clench and unclench at his sides.

He wants to rush him so badly. He wants to pummel that sadistic smirk right off his face. But the Yangs like their explosives, and the only thing Shawn wants more than to pummel this guy is to make sure Juliet survives.

"It won't happen again," he forces himself to say. His voice sounds funny in his ears, and he hopes the madman doesn't pick up on the quiver. So much for sounding brave.

The brother puts away the knife, replacing it with a gun. He trains it on Shawn, pulls out a cell phone and dials 9-1-1, clicking it over to speakerphone.

Ring.

Shawn glances at Juliet, then turns his attention to the phone, as if staring at it will transmit his thoughts to the person on the other end.

Ring.

"9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?"

Shawn stares at the gun pointed at his head, his mind completely blank. What is the nature of his emergency? A psychotic killer has strapped a bomb to a police officer, is pointing a gun at him, and demanding the release of a crazed killer. Which to choose, which to choose...

His eyes narrow, and the gun cocks.

"I need to talk with Detective Carlton Lassiter. It's an emergency."

"Sir, what is the nature of your emergency?"

Shawn's eyes dart from the gun to Juliet and back to the gun. "It's life or death. Get me Lassiter now."

She must pick up on his tone, because there's a click and silence, followed by another click and Lassiter's angry. "Who the hell is this?"

"Lassie, hi, it's Shawn," Shawn answers on autopilot, his voice calm and casual. "Just hanging out with Jules, wanted to check in and see how everything was going."

"Spencer!" Lassiter growls almost involuntarily before he no doubt puts two and two together. "Where the hell are you?"

The line goes silent.

"Talk!" the lunatic demands, waving the gun. Shawn swallows audibly.

"Listen, Lassie, I was wrong about Yang. You have to let her go. We got the wrong person."

Lassiter's voice is careful, clipped. "She's not the wrong person. And she's not going anywhere."

"I really think you might want to reconsider."

"She's not going anywhere."

"What if we do a trade? Her freedom for me and Jules?"

But Shawn must have said too much, because suddenly the madman lunges. Before Shawn can react, he feels the unmistakable radiating aura of pain coming from the side of his skull, his vision darkening with a hint of fireworks. He crumples to his knees, his hands flying up to cradle his head.

"Spencer! Spencer! What the hell is going on? Talk to me!"

But psycho shakes his head at Shawn, who doesn't even see it, and clears his throat. "Let my sister free, and these two will live. You have ten minutes before I expect to talk to my sister. Ten minutes or they're dead."

He snaps the phone shut and tosses it on a nearby stack of rotten wood.

"They're not going to do it," Shawn informs him, his voice flat. "They're not going to negotiate with you, no matter whose lives are on the line. Your sister is a sociopath who killed a lot of innocent people - maybe you both did. Maybe you've killed more, I don't know. The point isn't sibling rivalry, okay? The point is that the police department is concerned with the greater good. And if Detective O'Hara and I have to die to keep an insane woman behind bars, well, so be it."

Shawn's graced with a big, toothy smile. All he can think of is that the man could really use some whitening toothpaste. Or, really, any kind of toothpaste.

"I'm glad you see it that way."

The delivery of the line gives Shawn goosebumps. "Why?" he asks cautiously, his brain already a few reluctant steps ahead of the rest of him.

"Because-"

And before he finishes his sentence, Shawn knows exactly what he's going to say.

"Because we were never meant to survive this," Shawn guesses quietly, his eyes on Juliet.

"You know," the brother starts, his voice almost friendly. "I didn't particularly care for you. Oh, Sis ranted and raved, was so sure you were bright enough for the fun we had in mind. But I doubted her." He takes a step towards Juliet.

Shawn unconsciously mirrors the action as the brother's hand reaches out to finger her hair. "I think I owe you both an apology. You're not as harebrained as I thought."

Shawn tries to keep his face neutral as he notices Juliet's eyes flutter open. She twitches her face, no doubt in resistance to the duct tape across her mouth, and Shawn can almost pinpoint the exact moment when everything clicks into place for her.

Seeing her awake - at last, proof that she is actually alive! - renews Shawn's energies.

_'Get him talking. Keep him talking. Kid, if there's one thing you can do, it's keep a conversation going.'_ If Shawn has time later, he'll ruminate further on why his inner voice suddenly sounds like Henry, but for now he'll gladly accept his advice.

"So, if your sister is Mr. Yang, does that make you Ms. Yin?" It wasn't his best effort, but it was better than nothing.

Shawn is hoping to get a rise out of him, some kind of reaction, so that he can make a move. But the brother remains cool. Aloof.

"Our parents didn't dress us alike. We weren't those twins. We have our own personalities. My sister, for instance, has always had a thing for authority. That's why she likes these mind games and puzzles with the police. Personally, I don't care for it. I much prefer..." he trails off, pretending to search for the right words. "the one-on-one approach."

Shawn shakes his head slightly. They're twins. Of course they're twins. That's just his luck.

"That's why she picked yin-and-yang, and I consider myself more of a Shiva."

"The Hindu god of destruction?" Shawn questions. That does not bode well, though it explains the drawings in the book.

He earns another toothy grin from their captor. "My, my, you are a smart cookie. I can see how you might have softened her resolve."

"Softened her resolve?" Shawn parrots. _Keep him talking. Keep him talking._ "She was supposed to kill me?"

"Heavens, no. Of course not. What's the fun in that?" Shiva walks over to the silent phone, the gun still trained at Shawn.

Shawn shares a look with Jules. Senor Loco hasn't noticed that Juliet's awake yet. Maybe they can use that to their advantage. "She _wasn't_ going to kill me then?"

If Juliet pretends to be unconscious, and Shiva gets close to her, she can try to kick him. Something - Shawn will take any opening he can - and then he can rush him and this madness can stop. Shawn tries as hard as he can to convey that message with his eyes, and, when Shiva turns to look at the phone, Shawn makes a quick hand motion for sleeping. Juliet blinks twice, hopefully in understanding. She shuts her eyes, her head going limp once again.

Shawn hides a smile as the killer's attention swivels back to him. "She wasn't going to kill _you_. She was going to kill your mom. But she chickened out. I knew she would. So I was prepared."

"So, what? You're going to kill me and Detective O'Hara? Blow up the building with you inside?"

Shiva laughs again, and Shawn fights the urge to grind his teeth. "Just because I enjoy killing people doesn't mean I have a death wish." He strides over to Juliet, once again caressing her hair. Shawn prepares himself, knowing Juliet will make her move.

Shiva walks around to the front of Juliet, squatting down and reaching to check the blinking detonator.

Juliet does her best and lurches forward, kicking both legs out from under her restraints as far as possible. One whiffs air at his shin, the other manages to connect with his inner thigh. Although not her intended target, it's not bad for a blind move, and it distracts him enough. Shawn wastes no time in running and tackling Shiva.

The gun slips from his grasp and skitters across the concrete floor. Shawn manages to land two good right hooks before Shiva decks him straight in the nose and Shawn's head snaps back to connect with the hard, hard floor. Stunned, Shawn blinks while dots dance designs in his eyes. Shiva takes the lull as an opportunity to back up and scramble to his feet. He pulls a blade from a sheath strapped to his leg. Shawn, splayed on the cold floor with a steadily bleeding nose, finally manages to lift his dazed head. His eyes are glued to the glistening blade highlighted in the moonbeams.

Shiva lunges for Shawn, who has just enough time to lift a leg to kick him. Undeterred, as if Shawn's foot missed its mark, Shiva lands on top of Shawn, his weight holding down the smaller man. Shiva quickly places the blade in his teeth, instead pulling a syringe out of his pocket as Shawn attempts to wriggle free. Using his thumb, he pops off the cap and, despite Shawn's best efforts, manages to stick the needle in his arm. Shawn tries to fight him off, but a wave of lethargy washes over him almost instantly.

Shiva gets back to his feet and smiles at Juliet. "You keep an eye on him," he jokes. "I have to go get another chair."

Juliet's face falls as she watches Shawn's eyes flutter. "Almost... had him," Shawn whispers to her. He wants to say more, he wants to tell her important things because he's getting weaker and, for the first time in his life, he can't see how he's going to get them out of this one. But he doesn't have the energy to push the words past his mouth, and then he loses the power to even have the thoughts in the first place.


	5. is equal

Sorry for the huge delay. I've had this chapter around for a while, too. It's the next chapter that's been taking me so long. Anyway, hope you like it. And a big thank you to everyone for the reviews, especially fornwalt. Kind words are truly appreciated. :-)

* * *

Juliet's still a shade fuzzy from the drugs, but she feels stronger and more coherent. Unfortunately, it means nothing because she's still tied tightly to an explosive chair while her knight in shining armor is being tied up to his own.

In the interim, Juliet studies Shawn's bloodied face. Above his left eyebrow, a small cut is already scabbing over. His nose has finally stopped bleeding, but not before ruining his shirt, pants, and leaving a trail of red that makes it look like he's been shot. Or stabbed.

Juliet's breath catches. She hadn't had a very clear view of the scuffle; Yang's brother did have that blade.

She calms herself with the not-exactly-comforting idea that she'd be able to see more blood if Shawn'd been stabbed.

Yang's brother tightens the last strap across Shawn's legs just as the cell phone rings. He leaves them to walk over and answer it, putting it on speakerphone for her benefit.

"Spencer! We've got Yang. We're letting her go," her partner's voice rings out from the speakers. "Here she is. She'll corroborate it."

There's a faint rustle, a subtle click, and Psycho Serial Killer Number 1 is on the line. "Hey, bro," she says sweetly, as if she were just calling to say hi. As if she and her "bro" weren't responsible for dozens of murders. As if they weren't going to kill two more.

Juliet seethes quietly. What she wouldn't give to be untied and holding her weapon right now.

"What's the verdict?" the brother asks, turning so that he can watch his captives. "Are they letting you go?"

Yang laughs. "I think they were actually considering it, but no. They're not going to free me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" they hear Lassiter yell. Juliet can only imagine the look on his face. "We are letting you go! Tell your psychotic brother the truth! You're free, you're both free. Just let O'Hara and Spencer go!"

Juliet contemplates what her partner's plan might be, but she doesn't get much time.

"The police aren't going to let you go?" the brother asks, completely ignoring Lassiter. His voice is emotionless, a lifeless reading of an invisible script.

"No," Juliet wants to smack the smugness right out of Yang's tone. "So I'd say we're good to go with Plan B."

"What's Plan B?!" she hears Lassiter demand before the brother disconnects the call.

Grinning his sick grin, he walks back over to Juliet and rips the duct tape off her mouth without warning.

"Aghh," Juliet hisses involuntarily. He ignores her cry.

"I was going to wait until Mr Loverboy here awakens, but I'm afraid I can't spare the time. A Psycho's work is never done," he jokes, striding over to pick up his small remote control from the table.

"What the hell are you planning?" Juliet spits at him.

"You're so fiery," he comments, running a finger across the control. "Fitting, don't you think?"

"So you're blowing up the building?"

"Plan B is a multi-faceted plan," he declares, returning to the table and picking something up. He carries it to Shawn's chair, but Juliet can't see yet what it is.

"You won't get away with it," Juliet argues. "My partner's got the place surrounded by now."

"I'm sure," he replies sarcastically. "But even if he does, I'm prepared for that. Besides, you should really be worrying about yourselves now."

He moves away from Shawn, for the first time giving Juliet a clear view of the bomb tied around Shawn's ankles. It's a different bomb, this one with a red, digital display and two different colored bottles.

Yang's brother gathers a few things from the table and walks past Shawn towards the door. A few steps past him, he taps his forehead mockingly, as if he's forgotten something important. He doubles back, bends down, and pushes a button.

The numbers flash five minutes and start to count backwards.

"So," he starts as he once again heads towards the side door behind Shawn. "Any last words?"

There aren't enough words for what Juliet wanted to say, and she'd need a profane thesaurus to manage even one sentence.

With a little wave and a devilish grin, he strolls to the exit and leaves. The door closes behind him, its rusted hinges echoing throughout the former lumber store.

Juliet's eyes immediately return to the counter. Four minutes forty two seconds. Forty one. Forty.

Her mind races, but she can't imagine what they're going to do.

She frantically scans the dark expanse of the room. Nothing. Nothing that can help. Just scattered pieces of rotten wood.

All of the tools that had been so abundant before have suddenly vanished... except...

She spies the garden shears hidden partway behind the leg of the table. The ones he'd used to cut her hair - they aren't sharp but they'll do the job.

Staring down at her pressure-sensitive trigger, Juliet contemplates how to make her move. The only problem is... she can't make one.

She can't... but Shawn might be able to.

She has to wake him up.

Two heads are better than one, and waking Shawn up is going to be their only chance.

"SHAWN!" she screams, probably too loud but she can't help it. Her eyes settle on the screen.

Three fifty eight. Three fifty seven.

"SHAWN!" she yells again, staring intently at his battered face. "SHAWN! You have to wake up! NOW!"

His head lolls to the side slightly.

Juliet's face lights up. "Shawn?!"

"Grrmnhmn," he mumbles.

"Shawn, listen, you have to wake up. It's very important. You're tied to a chair. Yang's brother's strapped a bomb to you. I'm rigged, too. I need you to wake up."

Juliet gaps hopefully as Shawn lifts his head slightly. Maybe they have a chance after all.

Shawn's jaw shudders and he blinks rapidly. "Jules?" he croaks.

Juliet tries her most optimistic smiles, but she knows how it looks and drops the comforting pretense. "Listen, Shawn, we're in trouble."

Her eyes drop to the counter. Three minutes fourteen seconds. Thirteen. Twelve.

Shawn still isn't in complete control of his body and, even if he were, he can't see it anyway.

"What?" he asks wearily, his brain sluggishly attempting to catch up.

"You're," Juliet starts, then pauses. "There's another bomb. And I think he's wired the building. I'm worried that if I move too much I'll mess with the pressure sensor, but I thought maybe you'd be able to hop your way over to the shears. You see? Over by the table."

"What kind of bomb is it?"

"I'm not sure. Chemical? There's two small canisters of liquid."

Shawn swallows. "If I hop, I could mix them prematurely. It... wouldn't be pretty. How long do we have?"

Juliet's eyes reluctantly return to the counter. "Two minutes forty nine seconds."

Though a frequent quitter, Shawn is not a defeatist. Yet even he is starting to feel a hopelessness in his chest that can't be denied.

Can he scoot over and tip himself, somehow grab hold of the shears and cut himself and Jules free and run before the liquids mix? And before the timer reaches zero and does the deed for him?

Probably not.

Hell, who's he kidding? Definitely not.

He's good, but he's just not that good.

"Jules," he chokes, wanting desperately to whisk them both away, to be the hero one more time.

He's had longer than he ever expected, if he's honest. Always a seeker of danger and excitement, long before Psych's doors opened, Shawn's made his peace with death more times than he'll admit. And every time his charmed life leads him safely out of each near-death experience, a part of his brain inevitably focuses on how many more times he has. How many more lives?

He guesses he has his answer now.

"It's been a pleasure to, more than a pleasure, really, to-"

"Shawn, don't," she interrupts. He's pretty sure that's a tear on her cheek, sparkling in the moonlight. He humors her and pretends he can't hear the quiver in her voice. "We still have time. We can think of something."

Shawn shakes his head slowly.

"Lassiter could show up," there's determination in his tone now, and Shawn admires it. He nods, though he doesn't share her belief.

"Maybe," he agrees absently. His mind drifts for a moment to Gus. And Henry. Man, his dad is going to be pissed. He almost wishes he could see it. Hopefully his mom will help him cope.

Juliet's eyes are making the rounds from Shawn to the table to her bomb to his. Her brain is trying desperately, reworking the variables in every conceivable fashion, but the equation still seems to come out the same.

If there were more time, Shawn doesn't doubt that one or the other - or maybe both of them - could figure it out... but there isn't enough time.

Timing has never been their thing anyway.

Shawn's mental countdown's pretty accurate, and he knows they've less than two minutes.

Two minutes. You can't even order and receive a Starbucks in that time, and they're supposed to save themselves?

"Jules, I wish you would've asked me out yesterday," he tells her. His voice is quieter and more serious than Juliet's ever heard.

It freaks her out.

He's given up. It has to be bad for Shawn to give up.

"Me, too," she replies, her voice a shade above a whisper.

People probably would envy her, if they knew. No one knows long long they have on Earth, and Juliet has a very handy countdown.

"I'm sorry," Shawn blurts, interrupting her thoughts.

She's genuinely puzzled. "For what?"

"I should have seen this coming."

She takes a breath, refusing to contemplate how many she has left. "It's not your fault. Besides, I should have seen him in my car."

"I need to tell you something."

"You better speak quickly, then," Juliet attempts a joke but neither laughs.

Shawn swallows. Maybe he shouldn't say it. Maybe... but the idea of coming clean before they die...

"Two things, really," he adds. They only have a minute and some seconds left anyway. Why not come out with all of it? Why not free his soul before...?

"I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you," he admits hurriedly. "I wasn't going to say anything, but..." he trails off. If his hands were free, he'd gesture around them. As it is, Juliet understands him.

She sits still for a while. It makes Shawn anxious - more anxious than the timer, actually. When at last she smiles, it's bittersweet.

"It's good to know," she says, her throat suddenly dry.

"And I think I'm in love with you, too, Shawn," he prompts her with a grin, though not in his usual "Juliet" voice.

She chuckles, a mean feat with only seventy eight seconds, and returns the grin. "We'll see."

Neither one feels the need to remind themselves of their impending deaths.

Shawn turns his attention to studying her face. As far as last things to see, he could have done much worse.

"You said two things," she reminds him.

Shawn gulps, chickening out. Maybe some things were better taken to the grave.

"Nah, just the one thing, really."

There's a silence and, though it only lasts a few heartbeats, it feels an eternity.

Juliet doesn't pursue the conversation, but he's not sure if it's because of disinterest or a lack of time.

"I would have thought I'd have something profound to say," Juliet muses quietly. "That there'd be some mental clarity. I mean, aren't our lives supposed to flash before our eyes?"

"Maybe your life wasn't exciting enough, because I've been enjoying a mental Power Point presentation for a few minutes already."

Juliet's smile is half-hearted, and Shawn realizes it's because her eyes have caught the clock.

"Forty four?" he guesses.

"Thirty seven," she corrects.

Shawn attempts a shrug, as if it were as meaningless as guessing lottery numbers.

"Shawn, I just want to say that-"

Their heads snap up, her sentence lost to the ages. They hear the sound first, faint.

"Is that...?"

The cavalry is here, but they're too late.

The strobe light effect is mesmerizing as the approaching squad cars grow closer. The red, white, and blue lights beckon optimistically as they fill the room.

Shawn watches as Juliet's face falls slightly. She must have done the math.

With one of his last breaths, he sighs.

Juliet catches his defeated look. "Eleven," she tells him.

She wishes Lassiter would have been faster. She wishes she could hold Shawn's hand for the end. She... wishes a lot of things.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

It's like a New Year's countdown, Shawn thinks. Except no champagne and they won't see the fireworks.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

They share a smile. Each thinks of their families, their friends, their lives.

Four.

"Goodbye," Juliet whispers.

Three.

"Goodbye," Shawn echoes.

Two.

Juliet squeezes her eyes shut.

One.

Shawn braces.

Zero.


	6. to the love

The explosion is deafening.

At least, that's what he assumes. He can't hear anything.

Slowly, the sound of blood in his ears fades and Shawn can hear some things. He hears the sound of Juliet's breathing. And his own breathing, too.

He's confused; he shouldn't be hearing anything. Certainly not their own breathing.

He's supposed to be dead. Exploded into bite-size chunks.

Except he's not. His body, when he manages to open his eyes, is still in one piece. From the looks of it, so is Jules.

"What the hell?" Shawn asks once he's found his voice. He leans forward, trying to see the timer.

He can't.

"It's flashing zero," Juliet tells him in an unsteady voice.

"That's..." Shawn trails off, unsure how to finish.

Luckily, he doesn't have to think because the SWAT team storms through the door, Lassiter leading in gun-blazing glory.

Juliet sees their would-be saviors before Shawn, since his back is to the door. "Yang's brother isn't here!" she shouts helpfully. "But we're wired."

"Maybe," Shawn adds as the police approach.

It doesn't take long at all for the bomb squad to figure out that they're wired, but not to anything that can kill them. Though they've both already come to that conclusion.

"Why would he not blow us up?" Juliet asks aloud as an officer cuts at her ropes. Her hand automatically shoots up to touch her ragged hair cut. A paramedic stands next to her, at the ready, but she waves him off temporarily.

"It could be a distraction," Lassiter muses, deep in thought as he turns away from them. "Maybe Plan B doesn't include you at all."

"Or maybe this is still Plan A," Shawn closes his eyes, dropping his head as his own ropes are cut.

"Sir!" an officer calls, motioning Lassiter to the table. He's there in four large strides.

Snapping on gloves, he gingerly lifts the folded piece of paper. "See you soon, Spencer," he reads. He drops the paper with an angry grunt.

"They're still playing us," Lassiter declares, running a hand through his hair. "Goddamn it! Someone get Mary on the phone!"

Though Shawn is no longer tied to the chair, he's made no move to get up. Head still down, he mumbles. "It's the ultimate mind game."

Lassiter spins. "What?"

Shawn reluctantly raises his head, but not his voice. "It's the ultimate mind game. They're not done. Blowing us up would have been too easy. No, they're going to have fun. They want us to play again. They want us afraid of the next time... if it ever even comes."

Juliet shares a look with Lassiter before turning her gaze to Shawn. He won't meet her eyes.

"We're not going to find him," Shawn announces, standing. "You might as well save the department's time and energy and money. He's too good." Shawn turns and heads towards the front door, ignoring the paramedic attempting to help him.

"Let him go," Juliet decides.

They do.

*~*~

The newspapers have already been delivered by the time Shawn arrives home. He steps over the morning edition on his doorstep and heads directly to the shower.

'Shower, bed. Shower, bed,' his mind focuses on the mantra. Though his stomach growls, Shawn adamantly refuses to edit his plans.

Shower.

Bed.

As soon as the scalding water hits his body, it clears his mind. Simple tasks. A squirt of shampoo, a lazy lather. He can see the sun brightening the bathroom. His mind wanders, picturing all the people who've had a normal night now waking up to an alarm, having breakfast, reading the paper over a cup of coffee - none of which has ever appealed to him before but all now holding a certain charm.

The image of sitting with a cup of coffee and reading the paper seems especially alluring. Probably because he's so tired. He closes his eyes as he works the lather into his scalp, inhaling the ginger blossom scent of his knock-off shampoo.

Shower.

Sleep.

Then coffee.

He can see the scene, imagine the smell and taste of the coffee, the roughness of the newspaper, the dirty feeling of ink on his fingertips.

Something pokes at the edge of his consciousness, but Shawn merely rinses off the shampoo and picks up the soap. He avoids his face, unwilling to agitate the scabbing. Instead he focuses on his arms, wincing sharply every time he touches a burgeoning bruise. He's probably broken a rib. At least fractured a few.

The shower isn't as wonderful as he'd have hoped. Still, it's better than not showering.

Shawn towels off and doesn't bother with anything more than boxers.

He stumbles into the bedroom, feeling almost drunk with exhaustion. From the doorway the bed appears in all its beauty, almost seems a mirage.

But its weight and softness is real, and Shawn drops into its comfort, still not bothering with the covers.

He doesn't fall asleep so much as become asleep, launching directly into dreams frantic, unsettling, and revealing.

When at last he awakens, he's reached three important conclusions.

First, he's starving.

Second, he really has to pee.

And third...

Barring an orange tabby on his doorstep, he doesn't have a newspaper subscription.

*~*~*

"It's a reference," Lassiter insists, pacing energetically as he thinks. He's been at the station, working all night save for a mandatory nap, and the two gallons or so of caffeine running through his body make him jittery but hyper awake.

Shawn's mini-coma has left his body rested, even if the case's latest developments are stealing the peace from his mind.

Gus, assuming everything was over and everyone was safe, had slept like a baby and is in the best condition of any of them. Even Chief Vick had tossed and turned all night after Yang's arrest, worried about making the case stick.

"Detective, don't you think you're reading too much into this?" Vick asks, glancing at the newspaper again.

"No, Chief, I don't think we're reading enough into this."

"Lassiter, we're gone through the entire thing. There's no reference to Mr. Spencer or to the SBPD."

"I still don't think this guy's done playing. Right, Mary?"

Mary's attention shifts from the table up to Lassiter. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know?'" Lassiter snaps. "You're supposed to be the expert!"

"I thought I was. But twins, that's just beyond my experience. I've never had twins..." he trails off, the look of longing on his face making the others uncomfortable. "I have no idea what he's up to."

"What about the sister?" Gus asks helpfully. "Has she said anything."

Lassiter's caffeinated death glare focuses on Gus.

"She's not talking," Vick answers before her head detective can.

All eyes subconsciously turn to Shawn. He's tracing nonexistent grains on the table, unsettlingly withdrawn and frustratingly uninsightful.

"Do we have any ideas?" Vick asks the question of the room, but everyone knows it's really just directed at the sullen psychic.

When she's met with uncharacteristic silence, Chief Vick launches into action, brainstorming a strategy with Lassiter.

Juliet, meanwhile, rests her head in her hand, her fingers itching to tug on the jagged ends of her hair. Maybe if she pulls it, it'll grow faster. She knows there's no logic to it, but she can't help her new tic.

She's hasn't looked in the mirror since she accidentally caught sight of herself in the ladies' room.

It's not a scar, and she's not dead, so she tells herself she should be grateful. Hair grows. Until then, though, her head is home to a constant, vivid reminder of that night. She wants to go to the hairdressers to straighten out the cut, but she doesn't know if she'll be able to stand the mirrored sight of Mario fixing it.

She hasn't even gone home yet. There have been offers, since her car is still being processed, but, although she wants nothing more than to sleep in her bed, she politely declines.

It's not that she's avoiding it. She just... there's work to be done. Statements to give, evidence to collect, time lines to reconcile. By the time she can sleep, the sun is too bright and, since she doesn't want to mess up her sleep schedule, Juliet has decided to just keep going. Luckily, too, because they got the call from Shawn about the newspaper.

She's starting to feel the exhaustion, though.

Every time she manages to get the whole Yang scenario out of her head, her mind just shifts to her "last minutes" alive. On what Shawn had said. On what she had felt, what she'd regretted.

It's much better to stay at the station.

Plus, this way she can avoid calling her family. Eventually, she'll have to tell them what happened, but she's in no rush.

The only downside to not sleeping and roaming the halls of the station is that all the events of the last forty eight hours mesh into one big nightmare.

The Chief decides to break for lunch, and Juliet's mind groggily returns to the room. Food isn't appealing, but she can use the air, and so she concludes she will take a walk. The station is busy enough that no one asks where she's going as she heads outside. Not that she can answer anyway, were they to ask, because she doesn't have a destination in mind.

At least, not consciously. Apparently, her subconscious has a plan because, after a nice walk, Juliet suddenly finds herself at the boardwalk.

Her feet take her automatically to the parking spot, still cordoned off with traffic cones and police tape though she's certain they won't get anything useful from the scene.

She stands there for some time, shifting in her heels, lost in not-particularly-coherent thought.

Eventually she turns and walks back to the station, feeling even more tired and emotionally drained than before.

The fact that their case is quickly growing cold doesn't help, either.


	7. you make

Right, so there's only so many parts of the Beatles song I can use. I had to end the story here.

* * *

It's seven o'clock and Abigail is impressed.

Not only has Shawn remembered their date, but he's shown up early with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and, most amazingly of all, no chaperone.

The dark corner booth of the restaurant is just as dark as promised, and after the waiter takes their order they are left to their alcove in peace.

Shawn's being polite and funny and charming, although as they munch on their breadsticks she's beginning to wonder if maybe he's just on autopilot.

"Shawn?"

"Hmm?" he asks around a mouthful of bread.

"I think after dinner we should go home."

Shawn waggles his eyebrows suggestively, trying to swallow the food in his mouth so he can speak, but before he can Abigail continues.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," she corrects, and at his hurt expression hastens to add, "Not that that wouldn't be fun. Shawn, it's just... you've been through a lot, and I think you need some time to digest it all."

"I'd rather just digest this meal."

"Yeah, but-"

"What's there to digest?" Shawn interrupts, talking quickly. "I brought a serial killer to justice. End of story."

"Perhaps, " Abigail reminds him, her voice gentle, "but from what you said the sequel isn't over yet."

"Abigail," Shawn shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't want to talk about it."

"And that's fine. That's understandable. All I'm saying is... you don't have to rush into this for me."

"For you?"

"For me. Or for you. It's been how many years, Shawn? And how many months since the reunion? Another night or two isn't going to hurt us. I'm not going anywhere."

Shawn sighs, pushing his plate away in order to rest his elbows on the table. "I know," he says softly. He ducks his head down, scratching at the nape of his neck.

"Of course you are," Abigail shakes her head at him, smiling. "I can't believe we actually had a date last night. After all you'd been through!"

Shawn finds the energy to grin. "Yeah, I'm just that impressive," he jokes.

"So it's agreed then? We'll take it slow. You can have some time to get back to, well, not normal, because let's face it, you're not really normal-"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Abigail grins. "Oh, I meant it as one. So, we'll have dinner on, say, Friday. Maybe go see a movie or go bowling or something."

Shawn subconsciously makes a face at the mention of bowling.

"Not a fan of bowling?" Abigail asks, taking a bite of bread.

"No, it's not that, it's just," Shawn pauses, his mind on Juliet and not for the first time. "I think Friday is League Night," he finishes lamely.

"Oh. Well, whatever," she decides brightly. "I just, I don't want to rush this. You know?"

Shawn nods and smiles, though he doesn't know.

"Great," Abigail says. The waiter arrives with their entrees, and they settle in to a subdued dinner.

Shawn hardly eats, pushing the crab cakes around on his plate, wishing he'd ordered something else.

He doesn't need any reminders.

They don't linger long after the check has been paid, and they can't really talk on the motorcycle. Shawn's grateful for the silence, although he desperately fills it with random thoughts to keep the real stuff at bay.

He drops her off, receives a soft kiss on the cheek, and heads home. He has honed his senses, but he is too distracted to catch the bittersweet finality in her goodbye.

It's early, but he's exhausted.

He falls into bed but cannot sleep. Hours pass. Shawn stares at the ceiling, trying not to think.

He replays his father's warning. Damn Henry for being right. Will he really never sleep again? One night of coma-like unconsciousness and that's it?

But I did catch him, Shawn protests to himself. One of them. Isn't that worth a few hours of sleep?

Apparently not.

He's not sure if it's insomnia, the Yang sleeping curse, or just his brain unable to slow down, but his thoughts are all over the place, and so he's betting it's a mix of all three.

Things are supposed to be better after a near death experience. Food should taste better, the sun feel warmer, smiles stretch wider. Why hasn't that happened? Why are things worse?

Shawn shifts on his side, zealously molding his pillow into a snowmanlike lump. Aside from coffee, which he's certain has magical powers and always exceeds his taste expectations, life doesn't feel much changed, and certainly not for the better.

Even as he thinks it, he knows it's not completely true. Things do feel different... because they are different. And not just in a bad way.

Shawn likes Abigail. He knows it. Given the opportunity, he could even fall in love with her. He's as sure of it now as he was all those years ago on that pier. But he's also sure of something else- he's already in love with Juliet.

Now that he's not approaching a serial killer/hostage situation, Shawn lets his brain mull over the idea. Sure, they haven't technically even kissed yet, nor gone on a date, and he is pretty sure in his haste at her apartment he managed to see an alarming number of Lord of the Rings books, but it is what it is. He loves her, and, his thoughts drifting back to the drive-in, she's probably pretty close to feeling the same way.

Great.

Now he's not even the slightest bit tired.

It's just about sunrise by the time he gives up the idea of going to sleep at all. He decides he might as well head to the station now; he'd been able to leave the station for his date only because he'd promised the Chief to come back the next day and give his statement. They're worried he'll forget.

Like Shawn can forget.

Even if he weren't the way he is, he cannot forget.

He hops in the shower, dresses, and heads for the station, wondering if maybe the act of giving his statement will help put this case behind him.

*~*~*

"Don't be ridiculous, O'Hara," she chides herself, reaching once again for the door handle. Once again her hand hovers without making contact.

The car's been processed. She can clearly see the backseat is empty. Even if it weren't, she's in the parking lot of the police station. She's safe. And yet...

She drops her hand and it falls limply back in place at her side, keychain dangling and clicking quietly against her ring.

She can't spend another night at the station, but she can't bring herself to open the door either.

'Get back on the horse, O'Hara,' a voice in her head commands, sounding suspiciously like her older brother. But she's frozen in place.

Someone clears their throat and she jumps, turning and casually hiding her keys out of sight behind her back.

"Hey," Shawn says quietly. He tries to meet her eyes but she's staring at her right big toe. He takes a few steps, closing the distance between them. "How are you holding up?"

Juliet gapes at him, wondering if he's been reading her mind. She shrugs. "I'm alive," she responds, which isn't an answer but at least it's true.

Shawn nods. The fact that they're alive, both of them, is such a blessing that neither feels right to complain about anything yet. Who cares if you can't get in your car - you're alive. What does it matter if you can't sleep at night- you didn't die in an explosion. Beggars can't be choosers.

"How are you?" Juliet asks, her keys heavy behind her back.

"Fantastic," he answers with a slight twitch of a smile.

Juliet smiles ruefully, adjusting her arm and hoping the keys don't jingle. If Shawn finds out she can't get back in her car, well...

"You heading home?" he asks, nodding to the vehicle at her back.

"Yeah. I was about to. I just..." Juliet sighs and runs a hand through her hair, cursing silently at the reminder when her hand slips through air where her hair used to be.

Shawn doesn't make her finish her sentence. "Do you want a ride?"

'He said "want." Not "need."' Juliet's pleased with his word choice. "Oh, no, thanks, Shawn. I should really get my car back home," she replies automatically, even though the idea seems more than nice. And it's not just because I want to avoid driving.

"Oh," Shawn's face is unreadable.

Juliet takes her hand from behind her back and fumbles with her key. 'Please insist,' she begs in her mind, hoping against logic that he can hear it.

She opens the door and Shawn's hand reaches out to gently shut it. "Detective, have you eaten breakfast yet?"

A shiver involuntarily marathons through her spine. 'It's just my title,' she chides herself. 'Shawn saying it shouldn't change anything.'

But it does.

"No," she answers truthfully, her stomach thanking him for the opportunity.

Shawn smiles. "Then may I take you up on that date offer?"

Juliet shakes her head, stifling a grin. "Shawn, I'm sorry, but that offer expired."

Her grin breaks free after only moments of his dejected stare. "I'm kidding, I''m kidding," she insists.

"Too late," he replies, turning and walking towards the bike.

Juliet's puzzled, unable to tell if she's actually hurt his feelings or not.

"Are you coming?" he calls.

Juliet smiles, tossing her keys in her purse and hurrying after him.

She's never been on his bike before, and they both savor the brief ride.

Despite the Norton's engine, when they pull into the parking lot Shawn can hear her gasp. Maybe "hear" isn't the right word so much as "feel" since she's clinging so tightly to him. For a few tense moments he wonders if maybe it's a bad choice. He helps Juliet off the bike, and when she removes her helmet he can see by her expression he's picked the right place.

He holds open the door and, without saying a word, they walk into the diner where they met.

The End

* * *

And, much like Abbey Road, there may be a little "Her Majesty" added to the end. :)


	8. Her Majesty

I wrote this, and then promptly forgot to update. Luckily, I found it on my hard drive.

As Beatles fans will know, Abbey Road doesn't end with "The End." There's a tacked on little 23 second ditty called "Her Majesty."

So I just intended this to be a little P.S. to the story. And then the Beatles will break up. :(

"What is that?"

It's almost a week after their honeymoon before Shawn and Juliet finally have time to finish opening all of the wedding cards and presents.

Juliet, holding the object of Shawn's question, shrugs with a laugh. "I have no idea. It looks like it could almost be a bottle opener… maybe."

"Yeah, but what's that little part there? What does that do?"

Juliet's just as confused as Shawn. "I haven't the slightest idea. Who's this from?"

Shawn looks at the card. "Your Aunt Mildred."

"Ahh," Juliet gives the object another wary look. "That gave me no hint whatsoever."

"I've got it!" Shawn jumps to his feet, grabs the object, and rushes to the door, jamming it under. "A doorstop!"

Juliet laughs, impressed. "That almost works."

She contemplates the new doorstop thoughtfully as Shawn returns to his seat at the table. "Okay, we'll just have to put something vague in her card. What about, 'Thank you for your thoughtful present'?"

"Thanks for the weird gadget," Shawn pretends to read aloud as he writes. "Even as a psychic detective I have no idea what it is. Next time give the gift of cash."

Juliet slaps his arm playfully, then reaches over just to make sure that he hasn't actually written that.

"Juuuuuules," Shawn whines, rubbing at his arm. "Isn't it time we switched? I'm getting carpal tunnel here."

Letting out a good-natured groan, Juliet switches places. Shawn gleefully approaches the other table, contemplating the few remaining gifts. He picks a medium-sized box, beautifully wrapped in gold paper, silver ribbon, and a huge bow.

"There isn't a card on this one," he announces, tearing into the paper. "It's probably inside."

Juliet laughs at his child-on-Christmas-morning enthusiasm. Her cell rings and she answers it, her eyes still on Shawn. "Hey, Lassiter," she greets cheerfully. "You know, technically this is still my honeymoon, so I'm sure whatever you're calling about can wa-" she's silenced as her partner interrupts her, urgency in his gruff tone.

Across the room, once freed from decoration, the lid of the box lifts easily. Shawn peers into the container's depths. A shiver runs down his back, his stomach knots, and all the little hairs on his body stand to attention.

Juliet, meanwhile, is having the same reaction to Lassiter's call.

"Jules," Shawn says, and she's instantly at his side, phone still at her ear.

"Please tell me it's just another breadmaker," she whispers.

It's not.

The box is empty save for two small items.

The first is their wedding invitation, with extra writing etched in the margins. Shawn reads it out loud without picking it up. "Hope you enjoyed your honeymoon. Time to play again! P.S. I wasn't sure where you were registered."

Next to the paper is a silver stopwatch with "The Spencers" engraved across the top.

The numbers are already counting down.


End file.
